Shadow Puppets
by KBRC
Summary: Sherlock/Irene post Reichenbach. They were together after the fall, and now she's with him in London. Semi-angsty relationship development, will eventually be fluff. Was originally vignettes, but now there's an actual plot.
1. surprise!

**I know the warnings about running two stories at once (particularly when I already have several unfinished ones... but no mater), but I had winter break and a lot of free time and the muse went crazy. So this had nine completed chapters and several after that in the works. This was supposed to be a one-shot collection, but the characters had a mind of their own, and now there's a plot. Have fun!**

John Watson was fairly sure he'd had his fair share of surprises. Sherlock returning

almost 2 years after his "death" seem to be enough, life should be satisfied now. Not to mention the type of surprises one gets at war and whilst working with the world's only consulting detective. But, not 3 months after Sherlock's marvelous return, John decided life was a bitch. A sick, twisted, sadistic, mischievous, mysterious bitch. Much like the woman currently in his living room.

More importantly, the woman who sat, straddling his flat-mates lap, knees clamped along Sherlock's slim hips in his favorite armchair. Her arms were draped languidly about his shoulders, hands entwined in his thick locks. In quick movement, Sherlock pulled Irene to him, meshing his lips with hers.

John thought he'd gone insane.

Irene was alive.

Irene was alive and in his flat.

Irene was alive and in his flat and _being kissed by Sherlock._

He could process the fact that she was alive, she'd faked her death well enough to fool Sherlock once, and Sherlock had successfully faked his death well enough to fool Mycroft and he entirety of British media. Irene alive and in his flat… she'd broken in before, and if she'd been "dead" these past 3 years, she could certainly sneak into London unannounced and undetected. He could trust his eyes on the first two, but the sight of her and Sherlock _together_ romantically? That he would never have believed unless he was sanding here like he was now.

The tenderness the two displayed was incredibly out of character for the pair. The almost domestic familiarity was utterly foreign even more so given that last he heard Sherlock hated Irene (and he had assumed the feeling was mutual- she did lose everything to Sherlock), she was the woman who beat him after all.

But now he could barely tear his eyes away, feeling intrusive yet captivated by the scene in his living room, these two emotionless people looking so human.

He watched Irene push into the kiss and Sherlock tighten his grip on her slender waist. Deciding he better stop them now, before things went uncomfortably far, he set his bag down with an unnecessary amount of force, then proceeded to make a considerable amount of noise removing his coat and keys and wallet.

The pair stopped, "Secret's out," Irene murmured against Sherlock's lips.

"It would appear so…" there was an almost wistful tone to Sherlock's voice, and he placed a chaste kiss against the side of Irene's mouth. 'John," he said flatly, as if this situation was an everyday occurrence.

"Nice to see you again doctor Watson." Irene smiled at him, mischief and danger painted across her blood red (and slightly smudged) lips.

"You-you were dead! Mycroft said he was through this time!"

"I assure you, my head is still firmly affixed to my shoulders. Would you like to check?" She smirked, eyes flecked with sarcasm. John blanched at her words.

"You told me she was in America." Sherlock chided from his place beneath the curtain of Irene's hair.

John continued his train of thought unfazed by their remarks, "He-he said it would take Sherlock Holmes to fool him-" he stopped suddenly, "you didn't! Oh but you did didn't you? "

"What did I do exactly?"

"Don't play stupid Sherlock, it doesn't suit you." Irene gave Sherlock a playful glare, "John's having an understandable amount of difficulty with this."

Although his facial expression shifted a bit, John refused to acknowledge Irene's comment or presence. "You bloody _saved her_ Sherlock!"

"I feel so loved John, you seem overjoyed to see me." Irene gave John her best dominatrix smirk, the sarcasm dripping from her voice.

"Sorry, I just-"

"You're in shock, it's fine. I'm just toying with you."

"Right." There was an awkward pause as Sherlock and Irene exchanged a long look, much akin to the looks they shared the last time she was at Baker Street. "So are you two…" John cut into their silent conversation, feeling the tension rise.

"Obvious John." Sherlock's replied briskly, not breaking eye contact with Irene.

"Right well then, carry on." He turned to head up to his room, giving the pair a final lingering look. _Bloody hell, never would've thought…_

"Well that went better than expected," Irene hummed, shifting around in Sherlock's lap to face him again.

"I thought he might punch me again," Sherlock murmured, running his hand along the sharp lines of Irene's neck.

"I'm sure he'd avoid your nose and teeth like the last two times." Her words and predatory smirk brought back a flood of memories from their first encounter. She dragged a finger lightly across on of his pronounced cheekbones, them both clearly recalling her previous remarks.

Sherlock pulled her down then, capturing her lips. His tongue brushed along her

bottom lip, and was quickly granted entrance. She went to open his dress shirt, only to be interrupted by a loud clattering behind her toward the kitchen.

"Oh! Sorry I was just grabbing some tea."

"Cockblocked…" Irene whispered against Sherlock's lips. Sherlock laughed, deep in his throat where Irene could feel the vibrations in her chest. "I'd love one john and I'm sure Sherlock would as well, we take them the same." She tossed the request in John's direction, her velvet smooth voice putting John off ease.

_Of course you do,_ John thought, _just how you think the same, act the same… bloody hell you're practically the same person. _He wondered if they knew they were mirrors of each other, bent reflections like through warped glass. He brought their identical teas in, and thankfully Irene had removed herself from Sherlock's lap, and now perched elegantly on the right arm of the chair.

"So," John began, setting the mugs down on the coffee table, unsure of how to phrase his multitude of questions. "I'm going to assume that whist you two were…dead… you…"

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted, taking pity on John, "Irene was instrumental in helping me to end Moriarty's crime web."

"And… " John still wasn't getting the answers he wanted, "how long have you two been… a couple."

"We're not a couple."

_Yes you are,_ John was reminded of his conversation with Irene after her first "death." "Right, and answering simultaneously totally helps refute that. You've obviously 'had dinner' as you're so fond of saying Irene. For how long?"

"Of and on since Karachi, much more while I was away," Sherlock faltered a bit, his time away and his faked death were still taboo subject between him and John, and Irene's presence would likely add to that. It was rather obvious John didn't approve of his relationship with The Woman.

"Does Mycroft know she's alive?"

"Sadly yes. It was necessary, and her help with Moran assured that she is no longer an enemy of the British government, he's not pleased she's back in London though."

"And does he know you two are…"

"You should have seen his face when Sherlock told him John, I wish I'd taken a photo."

"Alright then."

"We didn't intend for you to find out this way, " For a second the tenderness in Irene's voice alarmed the army doctor, "Sherlock assured me you were out."

"I was, Mary decide to head home early, something about the new term starting tomorrow. She's a schoolteacher see."

"Ah."

The silence was awkward again, and John felt like a third wheel in yet another silent conversation. He watched Irene cock an eyebrow almost imperceptibly, and Sherlock's eyes widen in response as he quickly stood up, nearly knocking Irene off the arm.

Irene stood as well, and leaned to whisper something that sounded suspiciously like "eager boy aren't we" into Sherlock's ear.

"We're going to turn in for the night John." Sherlock's voice was hurried and clipped in a way John was unfamiliar with, and he couldn't help but wonder if I was a direct result of Irene's presence.

"Goodnight," He couldn't help but track Irene's hips as she slipped into Sherlock's bedroom. "Have fun with that Sherlock."

Sherlock smirked at him, different from his usual one. If John was being honest it looked more like Irene's favored predatory look. He raised his eyebrows and watched Sherlock trail Irene into his bedroom and secure the door. As he turned to go upstairs, he heard something crash, followed by a low moan. That was enough to send him racing upstairs to block out the noise (and attempt to erase the mental image), already planning to spend more nights at Mary's.

**I'll post more every 1 or 2 weeks, depending on how further chapters get written (trying to avoid a hiatus here). **

**thanks for reading, reviews make my day so I'd love if you drop one by:)**


	2. splatters on pavement

_**Oh look, chapter 2.**_

The rain hits the window in little pellets, keeping time with Sherlock's fingers on the strings of his violin. He stands overlooking the dismal cityscape, mentally locked in his mind palace. That's where John finds him when he returns from a shift at Barts, playing one of the many songs devoted to The Woman.

"Where's Irene?" He knows that melody, the one from her first "death".

"Out," Sherlock doesn't look away from the window. Out means she's working, or away from London. Both of which make for a very unhappy and completely intolerable Sherlock.

"You're okay with that?"

"Why wouldn't I be okay?"

"No reason," John sighs. He can't understand these two. They may be incredibly intelligent geniuses able to read anyone in a single glance, but when it came to each other they we hopeless. As much as John tried to avoid getting in the middle of it, he couldn't. He already was really, he had to put up with their silent fights (and the occasional not-so-silent), overly flirtatious banter, and Sherlock's behavior when Irene was away. He knew Sherlock and Irene both held "sentiment" in contempt, and that both were incredibly inexperienced at relationships. She'd been in and out of Baker Street for over 6 months since he first found them, and they _still_ refused to acknowledge that they were obviously a couple. When John asked, Irene would smirk and say they were "just casual". Sherlock wouldn't even reply. He couldn't understand why Irene had gone back to working as a dominatrix, or why Sherlock was okay with it. Or pretended to be. "Oh, Sherlock Mrs. Hudson cornered me on the stairs. She wants to meet the "mystery woman Sherlock hides upstairs." Her words, not mine."

"Why would she want to meet Irene?"

"I don't know, maybe because she cares about you. Or maybe it's the fact that it's blatantly obvious that you have a woman in your life. The walls are thin Sherlock, and Irene is…loud."

Sherlock might have blushed, but it was too quick for John to detect. "I'll talk to her about it."

"She seemed pretty determined to meet Irene."

"Not Mrs. Hudson John! Irene."

"Wait, you need to ask Irene? I thought you were trying to keep her a secret."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're Sherlock Holmes, the great emotionless detective! And a "relationship" would damage your precious reputation."

Sherlock looked at him like he had three heads. "I don't care about my reputation. Meeting people hasn't come up yet. We didn't even intend for you to find out so soon."

"Well, Mrs. Hudson wants to meet her. I suggest you talk about it."

"Of course. When she gets back from her… _business_." Sherlock's voice lost its indifferent tone, and a bit of hurt flashed across his face. _So he does care!_ John thought, and then decided to intervene.

"You're not ok with it."

"Yes I am."

"No, Sherlock you're not. It's not surprising or anything, nobody would be."

"I am _fine_ with it."

"You don't have to act all indifferent-"

"I AM FINE WITH IT!" Sherlock snapped, setting down the violin and storming into his bedroom.

"No you're not," John mumbled to his flat-mate's receding back. Sherlock and Irene needed to sort this out, or John was going to make them.

* * *

It's never really bothered her before. People give her looks, of disgust or shock or anger. Some say things, muttered insults or exclamations. She used to put them in their place, correct their assumptions in a clipped tone. It used to thrill her, gave her a sense of satisfaction, of control. She doesn't bother now.

It used to just be a few people. Back when she started her website, here were a few looks. Mostly shock really; people don't expect to see a woman they fantasize about in public. After a while though, she started playing more in the public eye, and the scandals got bigger. She appeared in gossips sites, a mention here, her face in the edge of a photo. Never anything overt though, nothing confirmed and always discrete. More people started to recognize her though.

People still recognize her, even after three years. But now the looks are starting to bother her, and she doesn't know why. Ignoring them used to be easy, but now she feels her skin prickle, her shoulders tense.

She's in line for a coffee, trying to figure out if she'd rather have a latte or drip and analyzing the man in front of her. She deduces he's a businessman from the collar of his suit, married from the scuff on his shoe, but cheating on his wife with two different women (tie's freshly tied, too tight to cover up a rather scandalous mark on his neck, and he keeps spinning his ring, rather obvious really). She smiles; she's really been spending far too much time with Sherlock. Cheating-businessman steps up to order his coffee, probably something strong to compensate the lack of sleep, and suddenly she's on the floor.

"My apologies Ms. Adler," A man sneers, not bothering to offer a hand.

She wants to smile at him, her merciless dominatrix smile, and say every bitingly clever thing she can. Expose him to the crowd now forming around her. She could tell them all he's bankrupt, with thousands in debt, charging everything on a multitude of credits cards, overspending to compensate for a receding hairline and poor physique. It'll all be true, and would certainly dent his confidence more than him knocking her to the floor did hers. Three years ago she would have, so artfully some of the patrons might have applauded. But she won't now.

As it is she feel a bit wounded, her marvelous ego taking a small but significant hit. She smiles, placid and accepting, and takes the hand offered to her. She stands and squares her shoulders, a perfectly executed performance in unaffectedness. It really shouldn't bother her, she's gotten this (and worse) for the last ten years at least, but it does.

She hears the whispering as the crowd dissipates. Her name sliding from gossiping lips, and crawling along her skin a little. She knows what they think of her, how the public sees her. Usually she couldn't care less, but there's now a coffee stain on her new Alexander McQueen dress, and a chip in the heel of her shoe (acknowledge the chip in her confidence would be too much). And she cares.

She orders her coffee, collecting it quickly and relishing the heat it provides. There are eyes on her, but there are always eyes on her. She saunters out the door, pulling her fur cape tighter against the December chill. She wants to give a giant fuck you to the public, but she won't. She learned a long time ago that the best way is to appear unaffected, even better for it. So she does.

She's familiar with all of this. What she's _not familiar _with is being this affected. It's not just the comments or looks or even being knocked to the floor of a coffee shop, but she feels bored. Bored with it all, with manipulating people, with the petty games she plays, with (as Sherlock so artfully put it) taking her clothes off to make an impression.

It clicks then.

Sherlock.

Being bothered by the public's opinion of her, bored with her clients. It's his bloody fault. He's crept into her head, infiltrated her fortress (she joked once that if he had a mind place she had an impregnable fortress. He didn't laugh). She knows what it feels like to be matched, to spar mentally with someone who is truly her equal. It's no longer fun to play with idiots.

She's so absorbed in her thoughts; she doesn't hear it at first. Two women on the street are staring at her, staring at her with gazes she knows far too well. They know who she is, what she does more specifically.

"She's a whore," One of the women says as she walks past, loud enough for Irene to hear.

she breaks a little, itching to quip back.

"A glorified slut really," the woman's friend replies in a disgusted tone.

Irene smirks, she can't control it. "You're quite misinformed dear," arranging her tone as if she's addressing a child, not a woman at least ten years older than herself (and that's being generous), "I am not a _whore _or a _slut. _Those both imply I'm promiscuous, or that I have sex with innumerable men for money. That is not the case. I'm a dominatrix, not a prostitute. "

The women shut up, shock evident on their faces. They didn't expect her to reply then. Irene is about to walk away, enjoying their discomfort, "if that's how you justify it then," the woman's voice stops her. "You still take your clothes off for money _dear_, " her voice is bitter, _she's been hurt- indirectly- by the sex trade, probably a cheating husband, _Irene thinks, "That's not exactly respectable. It's despicable what you do."

"Who was it? You're boyfriend, no. You're much affected for that. Your husband then." Irene's voice is cold, sharp and whip like.

"What are you talking about?"

"He cheated on you didn't he? But not with some woman, no, he was far too good for that. He liked call girls didn't he? After all, you can do anything with enough money. Did he like submission, _dear? _Did he have a few kinks you couldn't quite fulfill?

She knows she gone too far, she should have just walked away. "How, how dare you?" the woman gapes, aghast, and then throws her coffee in Irene's face.

_God this day! _Irene thinks, leaving the women fuming on the corner. She really needs a hot tea.

_**If anyone here is also reading Fragile Correspondence, that was to be updated today but i was rather r\sick over the weekend and didn't get to write it. It will be up next monday. As consolidation, I'm posting this a day early.**_


End file.
